(love)birds of a feather

chapter seventeen

To which Eddy rolls his eyes and says, "you're only saying that because you love me."

But really, those words of affirmation, however small they are, every letter and syllable untangles strings of doubt and worry within him, carrying the weight of everything beautiful in the world into his ears—even more so when voiced by Brett.

"You're right—about the fact that I love you, I mean." Brett rises up slightly to kiss Eddy once, before gently taking his violin and bow from his hands and setting them on the table. "but I meant every word."

Eddy's ready to throw a retort, but it's all lost in the clouds when Brett pulls him close and presses his lips to his again, and Eddy can do nothing but let himself get lost in a sheath of light.

♡ ♡ ♡

The remaining of the daylight passed across the sky, with nothing but pure love and affection between the two. Now, they're both sitting on the couch, sheathed in comforting silence as the night looms outside, as the cold rain pelts down on all the unprotected.

Sometimes when rain streams down heavy like this, Brett can't help the steadily escalating sense of foreboding that shadows a portion of his mind, the worry that bolts of lightning will rip through the sky at any given time. He can't help the way his ears habitually listen for any thunder growling in the grayness.

But the warmth of Eddy's leg up against his, of Eddy right next to him, to Brett, it's a sort of fond comfort, a quiet reminder that makes known to him an I'll always be here and an I love you alongside eachother.

But then his ears do pick up a loud boom of rolling thunder above, unrelenting, a percussion section of its own. And his eyes do discern jagged streaks of lightning cutting through the sky beyond the window.

At the sound and sight, something within him startles in alarm, and he can't do anything about the way his hand acts with a mind of its own, promptly darting out to Eddy's.

Crap, crap, crap—he hears the unpleasant voice of the orchestra in his head as it falls apart, falls in defeat before fear, as that fear wedges its way into his and Eddy's little world. As the fear called lightning reigns the sky.

Eddy's hand is warm and welcoming, a home for when he needs shelter; he takes Brett's hand in his, properly lacing them together and holding on unyieldingly firm.

Eddy smiles softly, though the way his eyebrows crease have sheer worry scrawled plain across. "Still afraid of lightning?"

"I guess—just a little bit," Brett replies, averting his eyes. "I guess the childhood fear's still there."

Back then, Eddy would do everything he could to avert Brett's attention from the chaos outside—they'd play melodies at fortissimo on their violins, as loud as humanly possible, all to drown out the booming thunder outside. But even then, his fear would creep out onto his bow and force it to stutter on the strings.

It's called fear, the thing that saps the comfort from the things one finds a home in.

He's averting his eyes, but one softly uttered "hey" in Eddy's voice is all it takes for him to look up into those beautiful eyes again. Those beautiful eyes, too, glinting with worry, but also with love and care that remind Brett of why he's in love with him.

Eddy reaches his free hand over to cradle his cheek, gentle warmth meeting fear, resisting it. "D'you want to head to bed?"

"I'll barely be able to sleep through all that," Brett replies, gesturing at the chaos outside, and hell, but right that second he visibly flinches at the sudden bolt of lightning outside that entails his words.